


fantasise

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex-Neutral Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, but still want tender jmart, explicit section marked in advance for peeps who wanna skip it, mostly feelings, they're just Like That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28810188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: “So did you want to try it?”Jon froze, and Martin’s eyes grew wide. “Only if you want to, obviously. Sorry. I didn’t …”“It’s fine,” Jon said, because it was.Try it,though? Well … no, right? Or rather, Jon hadn’t actually considered it an option. He’d been content to leave it an annoying, arousing fantasy, the same as all the others. And yet …“… You’re offering?”-Jon and Martin try something new.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 29
Kudos: 265





	fantasise

**Author's Note:**

> mom said it's _my_ turn to project my aspec attributes onto the jarchivist
> 
> Mentions of sexual fantasy and masturbation sprinkled throughout the fic. The explicit section starts at, " _Reaching over, Martin grabbed a pillow and gave Jon’s hips a little tap._ " and ends at, " _When he managed to collect himself, he whipped his head up._ "

Closing the door behind him, Jon let his shoulders sag. At last, the day was over.

Kicking off his shoes, he collapsed onto the couch, not even bothering to take off his work jacket. Cat fur had already started clinging to his lapels, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care. Damn the jacket. He would not move from this spot until Martin came home and bullied him off it.

_“Mrrep.”_

Jon cracked open an eye just as Lou jumped onto his stomach, shocking a startled breath out of him. Never an ounce of respect for his organs. She snuffled at his suit, then meowed again, insistent; he reached up to scratch just behind her ears, the way she liked. A low purr rumbled in her throat as she started to knead his stomach, claws sinking into his skin. His eyes pricked with tears, but he suffered through it. Anything for wretched, darling Lou.

Eventually, she decided to curl up on his chest, and they laid like that, sleep tugging Jon down until his eyes slipped shut. _No_. Bad. Had to wait for Martin to get home. Just a little bit longer.

At last, the door opened.

“I’m home, honey.”

Jon pulled his eyes open. He turned over onto his side, knocking an irate Lou out of place. "You've got it backwards."

“I have not.”

“It’s _honey, I’m home._ ”

“Yeah, if you want to sound like a twat. Which I don’t.” Reaching over the couch, Martin touched Jon’s shoulder, eyes bright and affectionate. “Hey there.”

Jon smiled. “Hello.”

Giving his shoulder one small squeeze, Martin turned away, and Jon dutifully waited for him to work through his routine. He checked off all the boxes in his mind: 1. hang up his jacket 2. put his shoes by the door 3. stow away his bag 4. give Lou a greeting pat, scold her for trying to trip him 5. grab a snack from the fridge. When Martin finally rounded the couch, can of soda in hand, Jon obediently lifted his head to make room as he sat down, and he settled on the soft plush of Martin’s thigh. He sighed.

Finally, he could relax.

Taking the remote, Martin flipped through TV channels, browsing idly before landing on some cooking show. His other hand carded through Jon’s hair, and Jon let out a low hum, pleasure coursing through him.

“How was work?” he asked before he was too far gone.

“Fine. Nothing too exciting. Had a few big cake orders, but it’s wedding season, I guess. Frank was causing a bit of a fuss, though.”

“Oh?” Jon smiled at the bite of annoyance in Martin’s tone. “What did Frank do now?”

“Wouldn’t shut up about some game last night. Do I _really_ look like somebody who’d be interested in baseball, Jon? Be honest.”

“I suppose not? I must admit I’m not familiar with all the trappings associated with a baseball fan, however.”

“Yes, well, let’s try and keep it that way.” Martin sipped his drink. “This is a hockey household.”

Jon snorted, his head lolling back in place. Martin’s hand trailed down to the back of Jon’s neck, and Jon arched up to give him better access. He’d been rather stiff all day, thanks to all his documents. 

Then, Martin pressed his thumb into the knot of Jon’s shoulder and let out a low hiss. "Jesus, Jon, did you get a gumball stuck in there or what?"

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon said, wincing as Martin rolled over the tangle of muscle.

“Like hell you do.” Martin wiggled his hand further under Jon’s shirt, seeking a better angle. “We’re visiting Melissa next week, you hear me? We might be able to squeeze something in before she’s booked solid.”

“I’m _fine._ ”

“Yeah, because you’ve got your own personal masseur on call.”

Jon hummed, pressing his nose into Martin’s thigh. “He’s quite handsome, too.”

“You stop that.”

Chuckling, Jon settled back down, letting Martin work at his shoulder. Eventually, Martin slowed into a more absentminded rhythm, warming the skin of Jon’s neck, before pulling his hand back up and carding through Jon’s hair. He dragged his fingernails across his scalp, and Jon had to hold back a soft sigh, a ripple of pleasure shuddering through him.

This was his favourite part of the day; when Martin managed to make him feel little more than a melting, mindless figment of tender comfort.

Sometime later, after Jon had become firmly ensconced in a syrupy subspace, Martin patted his shoulder.

“Got a little something for you, by the way.”

Jon held back a low groan as Martin pulled away and pushed himself off the couch. This was Jon’s _least_ favourite part of the day, when Martin had to be hauled away for one reason or another. The sound of a gift made the disappointment more bearable, he supposed, and he sat up as Martin returned.

“Cass let us take home some leftovers today.” Martin presented him a box with his workplace’s logo, revealing two small cupcakes. “Surprise! Got you the red velvet.”

“This is going to ruin our dinner, you know,” Jon said, even as he eagerly plucked up his designated treat. Martin snorted as he sat back down.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to ruin two slices of week-old pizza.”

“Maybe I was going to make that stir-fry tonight. You don’t know that.”

“I can see you’re right on top of it.” Martin pinched his cheek, earning an indignant scowl. “Shut up and eat your cupcake, you.”

Martin took his own vanilla cupcake and Jon leaned into his arm. He peeled the confetti wrapper off and took a bite, savouring the sweet flavour and moist, spongy texture. Martin’s bakery really did have the best. No wonder everyone wanted their wedding cakes; he just hoped they had a variety in red velvet, for someday in the future. As he chewed, though, he noted that something tasted off. “Did they change the cream cheese recipe?”

“I dunno. Maybe?”

Jon angled his head, because this was _important_ as Jon had rather _liked_ that cream cheese, but he paused. Martin was dragging his tongue along the edge of the cupcake, slow and indulgent, eyes slid shut.

Jon _should_ have scolded him, because there was a _proper_ way to eat a cupcake, goddammit. Any other time he would have. But he was still feeling warm and sleepy from Martin touching him, his tongue heavy in his mouth, and all he could do was watch.

Martin’s tongue flicked out again, soft and pink, slightly stained with purple dye, and a thrill of something hot pulsed deep in Jon’s lower belly.

That … that was …

“Got something on my face?”

Jon blinked. Martin was looking at him with a lifted brow. Oh. Oh, he’d been staring.

“I, uh …”

With an exaggerated eye roll, Martin huffed, bringing the cupcake back to his mouth. "Yes, yes, I know, it's not the _proper_ way to eat a cupcake. We all have our little indulgences, you know.”

Jon swallowed, tearing his eyes away and back to his own cupcake. “…Yes. Right.”

They ate their cupcakes and watched television. Afterwards, they reheated their pizza, Jon recounting his own anecdotes of the day. They took turns washing up in the bog, and then they got ready for bed.

And through it all, Jon was … thinking.

If Jon were to sum up the nature of his libido in one word, it would be _quiet._ Well behaved. For the most part, it didn’t bother him at all, content to leave him be for months without even a whisper of a thought.

 _Sometimes_ , though …

The next morning, Jon awoke with a shuddering gasp. Trace parts of his dreams lingered at the edge of his mind– his face pressed into the pillow. Martin’s hands, calloused but still soft, holding his raised hips. Martin’s tongue, hot and wet, spreading him open, lapping over his–

His face burned bright. Another pulse of heat shivered down Jon’s body, landing right between his legs, and he pressed his thighs together.

Jon’s libido was quiet. For the most part.

But sometimes, it got _loud._

With a sigh, Jon rolled out of bed. Martin didn’t stir, and Lou gave him only a displeased glare, curled up where Jon’s feet had been. He gave her an apologetic scratch behind the ears before slipping out of the bedroom and into the bog.

He'd tried keeping that cupcake and any relation it had to Martin's tongue out of his mind for the remainder of the evening, and thought he'd done a good job of it. He hadn't _stared_ again, at least. Or he hadn’t been caught, anyway.

It would appear his unconscious was not so easily satisfied. _Christ_ , what an inconvenience. He’d had to take care of this before it made him do something stupid, or worse, embarrassing.

He turned on the water as hot as he could tolerate and stepped into the shower, sighing with satisfaction as the water warmed his aching muscles. He rubbed at the knot in his shoulder, still twinging despite Martin’s best efforts.

On the thought of Martin rubbing his shoulders, tender but deep, he grasped at the fragments of his dream. They still lingered, somewhere at the foggy edge, keeping his blood warm and head fuzzy.

Martin. His strong hands, holding him as he squirmed in place. His mouth, breathing hot air as he dragged his tongue over–

Heat crept up from his stomach and throughout his body, sluggish and warm, and he reached down, eyes closed. It wouldn’t take very long at this rate, pulsing traces of arousal leftover from when he’d woken up. When he did come, though, the force of it still took him by surprise. _Fuck._ He rested his forehead against the wet shower wall.

All because Martin had tongued a cupcake. Good Lord. He didn’t understand himself sometimes.

Shaking himself, he lifted his face to the spray of the water, rinsing out his hair. There. He’d taken care of it. Now he could focus on the remainder of his day without another thought about it.

Martin was only just waking up as Jon got out of the shower, smiling when he saw Jon in the doorway. Tightening the folds of his bathrobe around himself, Jon rounded the bed and dropped a kiss on Martin’s brow.

“What’ll it be for breakfast?”

As the day wore on, though, the creeping heat returned.

It started as early as that morning. As Jon cooked their scrambled eggs, Martin snuck up behind him, touching his hip and kissing just under his neck. It was a routine gesture; a quick, gentle touch as Martin made his way to the sink. But that morning, it made Jon stop completely. Visions of his dream, a proper _fantasy_ now, sparked in his mind.

For God’s sake. He just hoped Martin hadn’t noticed anything unusual. The way his mouth curled with amused affection as Jon brought him a plate full of breakfast suggested he had, but he always looked at Jon like that.

He tried writing it off. It was still morning, after all; he hadn’t even had his coffee. He just needed more time and distance from his comfortable bed and that hot shower. Once he was outside, breathing some fresh air, he’d get over it.

And at first, he’d dared believe he was right. Hard to hold onto the low buzz of arousal when you were being tossed about in a metal tube with unhappy strangers. But as he settled at his desk, scanning through the documents he had left for himself the day previous, it continued to prickle at the edge of his thoughts.

He forced his attention to his documents. He would not let this hamper his productivity– he _wouldn’t_. If anything, he found himself with a small boost of energy, likely a leftover from the endorphins of this morning’s exploits. Despite the situation, he managed his way through several of his papers unimpeded.

Good. Perhaps he’d managed to beat this thing after all.

But lunchtime came and went. The pasta Martin had prepared him sat heavy in his stomach, tugging at his eyelids. A nap sounded delightful right about then, but he diligently sipped at his tea. He was still new here, he could hardly be caught sleeping on the job, even if it was his break time. But more importantly, he worried that if he slept, he might start … _thinking_ , again.

The images flashed under his eyelids. Oh, _blast it._ It was like telling someone _not_ to think of a pink, polka-dot elephant. Of course they were going to think of the bloody pink, polka-dot elephant! _Stupid_.

Sighing, he kneaded the heels of his palm into his eyes. The problem with having a sex drive that kept to itself, for the most part, was that, when it decided it wanted to wake up and have some fun, Jon had very few strategies getting it back in its quiet corner. It proved _entirely_ too distracting, and the only thing Jon found that worked to any effect was trying to squeeze in a wank whenever he could, and just hope it would satisfy him enough that he could move on.

This _particular_ fantasy was an anomaly, though. Jon had _had_ fantasies before, but they were … distant. Omnipresent, detached. Eyes looking down on the titillating scene in question. He’d never imagined himself so _involved,_ much less engaged in such a … _debauched_ act. But perhaps that’s what made it so enticing; it was something _new._

“Mr. Sims?”

Jon startled. Shelly was staring at him from his office’s door, one brow quirked. How long had she been standing there? How flushed was his face right then?

“You alright?” she asked. “You looked a million miles away just now.”

"I'm fine. Just thinking of … personal matters." _Personal_ , now there’s a word for it.

“I was just wondering if you’d gotten those papers to Jorge yet?”

“Oh, no, not yet. My apologies, I promise I’ll have those ready by the end of the day.”

“See to it, love.” Good-natured, but firm. Jon nodded, stomach writhing with embarrassment as she smiled and left. Sighing, he shifted his legs into a more comfortable position.

Only a few more hours. Then he could take care of it.

He managed to make it home with some dignity left to spare. For a horrid moment, when he had delivered those documents to Jorge as requested, he’d thought the old man could somehow sense what was snaking through his head. Something about the way he lifted his brows when Jon had handed his papers over. But he’d said nothing, and Jon tried to tell himself he was just being paranoid.

It was hard _not_ to feel paranoid, though, with the way his body and mind were determined to trip him up however they could. By the time he'd made his way to the bedroom, tugging off his jacket and work pants, he was already half-hard– he’d been struggling against it the entire ride home. Bloody thing.

But he _was_ home, and he could finally _relax._ He could lie down in his bed and let the fantasy roll over him at his own leisure. It wasn’t as if he hated masturbating, after all; it was just obnoxiously insistent. Like he was being _told_ to do it, in such a way that it made Jon want to dig in his heels, cross his arms, and say _well I don’t want to do it._

At least he could give it the attention it was clamouring for now.

Stripped down to his pants and undershirt, Jon slipped under the covers with a long sigh. He afforded himself a moment to luxuriate in bed, sinking into the soft cushion of the mattress; it had been a _long_ day, after all.

He rolled onto his side, palming himself through his pants.

Now, to work.

He let the fantasy build-up this time, gave it a proper Act 1. Martin, coming home from work, head tossed to one side as he rolled out the kinks in his neck. Greeting his adoring husband with a resounding kiss, lifting Jon right off his feet. Jon's stomach swooped low; he loved it when Martin lifted him, as if he were little more than a doll.

They would move to the couch; it didn’t matter how, that was just where they were now. Martin had a firm grip on the back of Jon’s neck as he controlled the pace of the kiss, Jon growing dizzy from its intensity, reminding himself of the need to breathe. Then Martin would pop the buckle of his belt, pulling his trousers down, just far enough to expose him but still locking his legs in place. Jon sucked in a deep breath, stomach fluttering as Martin turned him over, fingertips smoothing down the sensitive skin of his inner thighs–

“ _Mrrrep_.”

Jon jumped, faced with the dark orbs of Lou’s eyes. She must have leapt onto the bed at some point and was now staring down at him, in her usual fashion. Jon had been too absorbed in his fantasy to notice, and his face grew hot. Lou was a voyeur at the best of times (always eager to follow them into the bog, their own feelings be damned), but this was something he’d _really_ prefer not to have an audience for.

Flipping off the duvet, Jon scooped up the entirely too trusting Lou and placed her just outside the bedroom door.

“I know that _you_ don’t mind if someone’s watching you touch your private parts,” he said to her. “But not all of us are quite so bold. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

“ _Mmrp._ ”

“Quite.”

Closing the door behind him, Jon crawled back into bed. Free from distractions, he tried to find his flow again. Right, they were on the couch, Martin had just taken off his belt and flipped him over …

He grimaced. Why would they be doing this on the couch? Their window was _right there_ ; any random passerby could peek in and see a show. But it seemed a bit awkward to stumble all the way back to the bedroom– there was a much higher chance of tripping along the way. Jon wasn’t exactly graceful. He’d probably just end up stubbing his toe–

Jon didn’t realise he’d started to doze off until the bedroom door opened.

"Well, hello, sleepyhead," said Martin with an incensed Lou squirming in his arms until she could jump onto the bed. "Fancy running into you here. Why'd you lock Lou out?"

Jon hesitated. “Just … wanted to take a nap.”

Martin quirked a brow, and Jon knew he hadn’t been entirely believed. But Martin didn’t push, and Jon appreciated it. It wasn’t as if he wanted to hide it from Martin forever. Just ... maybe they could broach it a bit later.

He rolled out of bed. “How does that stir-fry sound for dinner?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Cooking, at least, offered a quaint peace of mind, as he was able to focus on little more than chopping vegetables and slicing the chicken. When all he needed to do was stir sizzling food in the pan, however, his mind started to wander again. Having Martin nearby only made it worse.

He was starting to get really sick of this.

“How’s it going?” Martin asked, appearing behind him. Jon prepared an answer, but then Martin slid his hands over his hips, resting his chin on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon’s brain _stopped_. “Looks good.”

A low, creeping warmth snaked its way through Jon’s body. As gentle as Martin’s touch was, there was a hidden strength to it; Jon knew that better than anyone. He tried to reply, but his tongue had grown fuzzy and sluggish.

“Jon? You okay?”

“Fine.” A squeak. “Just. Thinking about you.”

Martin smiled. “About me …?”

Oh, _blast it_ , why had he said _that?_ “It’s nothing important.”

The brow remained arched, but, blessedly, Martin didn’t call him out on it. Jon wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or frustrated; either way, they filled their plates and sat at the dinner table, working through their meal. It was rather well done, if Jon said so himself, but it was difficult to appreciate it given the circumstances. He didn’t know how Martin could prove to be so distracting eating chicken stir-fry. Something about the way he gripped his utensils, or how he licked his lower lip.

Jon was a lost cause, he really was.

“Okay, come on, what’s going on?” Martin asked, lowering his fork to his plate, and Jon squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing. You’re dazed, is what you are.”

If Jon’s face hadn’t been giving him away before, it definitely was now. As embarrassing as this whole thing was, though, he didn’t want to actively start lying to Martin, especially for something so stupid. “I’ve been … thinking.”

“So you’ve said,” said Martin. “About me?”

“Yes, you. You and me. And you … your …” Jon swallowed. “… tongue.”

“My … tongue?”

“Yes.”

“What about my tongue?”

“I’ve been thinking about your tongue on … me.”

“Yo–? Oh.” A dull red coloured Martin’s cheeks, much to Jon’s satisfaction. “You?”

“Yes. On my …”

“On your …?” Martin coughed. “What, your … cock?”

“… lower.”

“ _Whoa,_ hang on, slow down,” Martin said. “So, what, you’ve been fantasizing about me … rimming you?”

Jon could have sunk out of his chair and onto the floor from the mortification of it all. “Only recently.” He pushed his food around his plate. “It’s been quite a bother all day, to be honest.”

“Um. I’ll bet.”

Jon chanced a glance through his eyelashes. Martin didn’t look upset or, god forbid, disgusted. Of course Jon _knew_ he wouldn’t, but his shoulders relaxed anyway. Clearing his throat, Martin returned his attention to his plate.

“So did you want to try it?”

Jon froze, and Martin’s eyes grew wide. “Only if you want to, obviously. Sorry. I didn’t …”

“It’s fine,” Jon said, because it was. _Try it_ , though? Well … no, right? Or rather, Jon hadn’t actually considered it an option. He’d been content to leave it an annoying, arousing fantasy, the same as all the others. And yet …

“… You’re offering?”

"I mean, sure," said Martin, scratching the back of his neck. "Never really had an interest myself, but I'll try anything once if it's something you think you'd like."

 _Did_ Jon want to try it? Yes, the two of them had had sex before, but very infrequently, technically closer to never. The times they _did_ were hardly more than indulgent handjobs under the bedcovers during a lazy Sunday morning cuddle. Their pants never came off. Jon liked it that way, and he’d never had an impulse to take it further. He could barely handle being entirely naked in front of Martin without feeling self-conscious, and here he was– inviting him to … what was it? Rim him?

Jon could feel his face burn.

It was certainly a leap.

But if Martin was willing to try because Jon had developed a sudden interest, well …? It’s not as if they had anything to _lose._ Per se.

“I … I’ll think about it.”

“Of course. Whatever you want to do.”

 _Whatever Jon wanted …_ That was the question, though, wasn’t it?

They finished their dinners, washing the dishes together and lounging on the couch, as they always did. Later that night as they laid in bed, after nearly an hour of strenuous pondering, Jon turned onto his side.

“Are you awake?”

A low hum answered him.

“So. Upon consideration …” Jon ran a finger down the seam of his pillow. “What do you think this, uh, _endeavour_ would entail?”

“I dunno.” Martin opened a bleary eye. “What do you _want_ it to entail?”

“If I only wanted to, uh … if I just wanted the …?”

“Rim job?” Martin supplied with a curling grin.

"Yes, that," Jon said, face hot. Damn his puritanical upbringing. "If I just wanted to try that, nothing else, would that be alright with you?"

“Sure. We’ve had this discussion before, you know.”

“I know.” Of course Jon knew. He still remembered the way his heart had palpated during that conversation, stuttering in panic, the looping words in his mind of _I’m not going to change_ and _please understand_ and _I hope you stay._ “I meant more in terms of would you … want me to return the favour?”

“Uh.” Martin’s mouth twitched. “Thanks. But I’ve never really been interested in trying–”

“Not _that_. _Other_ ways.”

“You mean …?” Jon nodded and Martin’s mouth went slack. “Oh. I mean, do you _want_ to?”

Jon shrugged, eyes falling back to the pillow seam. “It’s common practice that _both_ partners achieve an orgasm during a sexual encounter, is it not?”

“We’ll do whatever you feel comfortable with.”

”But isn’t that selfish? You doing this for me only to get nothing in return?”

“Jon, I’m not doing this as some kind of favour. I know how you feel about all that.” Clearing his throat, Martin looked down at their shared blanket. “Honestly, I’m just really touched you’d trust me with something like this at all.”

The words knocked out of Jon's chest, leaving him speechless. Martin's eyes were still looking away, but his lips still curled ever so softly. Throat working, Jon nestled in closer, his fingertips brushing the sleeve of Martin's forearm. In all of Jon's life, dark and lonely for as long as he could remember, what had he done to deserve this tender man and his soft affections?

An idea struck him, and he snapped his head up. “I’ll make some jam.”

“W-what?”

“For reciprocation. I’ll make that raspberry jam you like.”

Martin snorted, then giggled, and then was lost in a proper laughing fit. Jon frowned, enthusiasm dimming. “Is … is it not a good idea?”

“It’s a wonderful idea.” Martin settled back down, smiling, eyes fond and warm in a way that made Jon want to curl up under the bed covers, blushing like a schoolgirl. “Okay, sure. I’ll eat you out, and you’ll make me raspberry jam.”

Jon failed to hide his cringe. “ _Surely_ there’s a more elegant way to describe it?”

“Analingus?”

“Christ, no.”

Snickering, Martin gently turned him onto his other side and then wrapped an arm around him, hugging him to his chest. “Noted.”

Jon smiled, comforted by the strength of Martin’s embrace, and drifted off to sleep.

They set a date. Sunday, late morning or early afternoon– however they felt at the moment. It gave Jon enough time to prepare, emotionally, and … do the proper research. Martin _swore_ all he needed to do was take a nice, thorough shower, and Jon was inclined to believe him, if only because the idea of an enema sounded awful, truly awful. He’d save that particular experience should the need for a colonoscopy ever arise.

So the week went on, with Jon continuing to work through his documents in a foggy haze. The intensity of the fantasies had eased, but a new warming sense of anticipation plagued him, matched in equal part to a creeping apprehension. It was a strange mix, and Jon didn’t know what to do with it.

When Jon came home that night, Martin presented him with a packet of floral-scented soaps. “Surprise! Figured this might help you relax, in case you’re feeling nervous or anything.”

Jon chuckled, equal parts embarrassed at being so easily read, and touched that Martin knew him so well. “Thank you.” He unpacked the first one, breathing in it’s manufactured scent. Orange blossoms. Couldn’t go wrong with that. Then, he paused. “Although … aren’t you not supposed to …? You know, since it can irritate–?"

“Oh? Oh!” Frantic, Martin threw out his hands. “ _No_ , no, these are _strictly_ for, you know, general use. Yeah, no, um,” he chuckled, running a hand through his hair, “please don’t use them, you know, _there_.”

Jon nodded, blushing fiercely. Christ, all this awkward dancing was agony. Hopefully, once all was said and done, they could stop being so damn _coy_ about it. Being the people they were, though, Jon doubted it.

Sunday arrived.

Jon stood from the couch, announcing he was off to take a shower, staring at Martin meaningfully as he did so. With twitching lips, Martin nodded and said he'd be waiting in the bedroom.

In the shower, Jon took his time. With his hair tied up, he stood under the torrential spray, rubbing the lathered orange blossom into his torso and taking deep, steady breaths. He cleaned himself as well as he could. Thank God they'd had a detachable showerhead.

And, finally, Jon felt clean.

Towelling himself dry, he plucked off the worn jumper from where he’d lain it on the counter, having swiped it from Martin’s side of the closet as he’d passed the bedroom. It would be fun, he imagined, to swan into the bedroom in nothing but a towel, sultry and flirty. Doubtless, Martin would appreciate it. But even as the hot water unwound the stress in his shoulders, the apprehension still tangled his stomach in tight knots.

Martin said they’d do whatever Jon felt comfortable with. He told himself that again and again as he tugged the jumper over his head where it fell to just past his knees. It enveloped him like a hug.

At last, he walked out, cool air nipping his still damp thighs. As he entered the bedroom, Martin smiled.

“Hey sexy.”

Jon smiled back and hoped it didn't look too shaky. Rounding the bed, he suspiciously glanced about the corners of the room. "Where's Lou?"

“Uh, I dunno. Probably in the living room somewhere.” His smile curled. “Is _that_ why you locked her out the other day? Because you were …?”

“I was _trying_ to, anyway,” Jon said, outraged that his face had started to warm again. They were about to do this properly, now was _not_ the time to be embarrassed about a thing like that. Oh, God, they were really doing this properly …

Martin’s fingers brushed his arm, and he jumped a bit.

"How are you feeling?” Martin asked.

“Um. Good.” He tweaked the edge of the jumper. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d rather keep this on during our … proceedings.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Jon smiled, pleased that Martin didn't think him strange for it, or at least didn't make it obvious. The pleasure quickly became tangled in the pit of his stomach as he remembered where he was, what they were about to do. Taking a deep breath, he collapsed belly-down onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow. "Okay. I'm ready."

“Wha–?”

Jon looked over his shoulder to Martin’s baffled expression. “What? We can start now.”

“Oh. I just,” Martin plucked at his fingers. “So. We’re just going to get right into it, then?”

"Well, yes. That's what we agreed on, right?" Jon was losing his nerve faster by the second. "I'd rather just get this over with if you don't mind."

“Oh.”

Martin looked crestfallen, Jon swore at himself. That had sounded rather callous, hadn’t it? Before Jon could formulate a proper response, though, Martin took a seat at the edge of the bed, touching his arm. “Jon, if you don’t want to do this–”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that, I promise.” With a sigh, Jon buried his face into the pillow. They hadn’t even started and he was already cocking this up. “Sorry. I’m just nervous.”

After a moment, Martin ran a slow, soothing hand down his back. “Anything I can do to help?”

His thumb circled the spot between Jon’s shoulder blades that he liked so much. Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders, and he turned his face up with a gentle sigh. “This is nice.”

With both hands, Martin stroked up and down the planes of Jon’s back, the perfect amount of pressure to soothe, but not hurt. Jon allowed his eyes to slip shut, the first of his stomach knots untwisting. See? Not so bad, was it? Jon had _no_ reason to be so nervous.

And yet …

After a few moments, Martin slowed. “Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

Jon had to peel his eyes open and hummed thoughtfully. “However you prefer. I don’t mind.”

Smiling, Martin tugged his jumper over his head, plucking at the buttons on his vest. Jon watched with idle interest, eyes roaming over the delicate skin of Martin’s torso. They landed on the little mole that dotted his left shoulder. Jon adored that mole.

Martin ignored his trousers, though, as he turned back to Jon. “Ready?”

Jon took in a deep breath, his chest pushing down into their bed before he let it out in one, slow exhale. "Yes."

“Alright.”

Suddenly, Martin lurched forward, wrapping his arms around Jon’s chest, and Jon yelped as he found himself squished into the mattress.

“Just warming my hands,” Martin said into his ear, pressing a smile into Jon’s shoulders, squeezing Jon’s chest.

Jon laughed, trying to smother it into the pillow. “I can see that.”

Grinning, Martin dropped a kiss just underneath his ear, and then slowly trailed his mouth down Jon’s jaw. Jon’s eyes slid shut, luxuriating in Martin’s weight as it pressed him down, breath gentle on his neck. The last knot of anxiety in his stomach unravelled. Whatever happened, Martin would take care of him. He always did.

With one more, lingering kiss, Martin straightened, moving further down the bed. Jon waited, breath caught somewhere in his throat, until Martin's hands gently brushed the skin of his thighs, tweaking the edge of his jumper. His stomach flipped. It wasn't unpleasant, though, not with how soft and warm Martin's hands were.

Suddenly, as Martin pushed up his jumper, he giggled. Jon whirled around. “What?”

“Sorry,” Martin said, fingers still on Jon’s jumper. “Just had this image of opening a present on Christmas.”

Snorting, Jon clapped a hand over his mouth to smother the sound. “Good Lord.”

Martin smoothed a hand over the curve of his bum. “And if you’re really good this year, Santa will bring you a perfect arse, too.”

“ _Perfect_ ,” Jon scoffed. “Weren’t _you_ the one who said, if pressed, you couldn’t tell the difference between a flatfish and that very same arse that you’re currently holding in your hands?”

“Still perfect,” Martin murmured. “Just enough stuff for a good pinch, you know?”

He demonstrated as much, and Jon yelped, face flaming. He whipped up his leg to kick at Martin with his heel. “Would you just get on with it?”

“Oh, somebody’s impatient.” But Martin was smiling, and he looked at Jon with affection. “Still feeling good?”

Jon paused. Even this far into it, Martin was still stopping to make sure Jon was still comfortable going forward. Jaw working, Jon nodded. “Yes. Feeling good.”

“Good.”

Reaching over, Martin grabbed a pillow and gave Jon’s hips a little tap. Oh. Jon obediently lifted himself, and Martin slid the pillow into place. Smart. Jon wouldn’t have thought to do that.

With both hands, Martin continued to massage the soft skin of Jon’s inner thighs, thumbs sliding into the dips where his legs met his backside. Jon let his eyes slide shut, dropping his head into the pillow. Yes. That felt rather lovely.

Then, Martin cupped his arse, more firmly than he was expecting, and a pulse of heat shot through Jon's abdomen. Firm, yes, but not overly restraining. Just enough to hold him in place, should he start squirming. Jon swallowed, heart thundering against his ribs.

Cool, dry lips pressed over his tailbone, lingering. Then, Martin spread him open, exposing his delicate skin, and Jon gasped sharply.

“Still good?” Martin asked, frantic. Jon only nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was an odd sensation, the cool air of the bedroom kissing his tight, stretched skin. He tried to relax, but it was hard knowing Martin was seeing him like this. It was … exhilarating, if he was being honest, being seen like this– exposed and vulnerable. He drew in a shuddering breath, the heat of arousal slinking through his body like a strong drink.

They stayed fixed that way for a good few moments, though, and Jon frowned, glancing over his shoulder. Martin was staring down at him, eyes wide and glassy.

“Is something the matter?”

Martin jumped a bit, blinking as if he’d just woken up. “Sorry. Just …” He cleared his throat, fingertips pressing into Jon’s skin. “You look really gorgeous like this.”

Jon’s stomach flipped. What, flopped down on the bed with his arsecheeks being spread apart, wearing a jumper that was too big for him? Jon felt he looked quite silly, actually. But the way Martin said it, with such genuine sincerity, that Jon couldn’t help the way he flushed at the praise.

His own face warming, Martin reached for the end table and plucked up their small bottle of lube.

"Edible," Martin murmured as he poured a generous dollop on his fingertips and Jon giggled, half-hysteric.

Rubbing the lube into his fingertips, he spread Jon open once more. Jon had braced himself, trying to breathe calmly, and still jolted at the warm touch to his rim, the lube slippery and cool. His pulse pounded in his ears. Finally, _finally_ Martin was touching him, massaging the slick lube into the tight knot of his entrance. Martin shifted, leaning down and hovering, breath warming Jon’s skin. The liquid of the lube mingling with Martin’s hot breath made Jon squirm– his cock was starting to fill.

Then, Martin dragged the flat of his tongue from his perineum all the way up, and Jon lurched, hips bucking into the pillow.

“Alright?” Martin whispered. Jon nodded, breath too scattered to summon a response. Martin chuckled, breath brushing Jon’s entrance, eliciting a gentle shiver. “Is it alright if I use my fingers a bit?”

Jon nodded again without entirely processing the question. When he did, he mumbled, furtive, “Not too deep.”

“Course.”

And Martin dragged his tongue over his rim again, slow and indulgent, one thumb circling him, gently stretching him. Jon tried to keep his breathing steady even as his legs trembled, stomach heating. Martin’s lips formed a small suction around his entrance, lightly sucking, and began to tongue him open, deliberate and leisurely. Jon bunched his fingers into the sheets. How could it possibly be so _sensitive?_ Like a million nerve endings being struck at once, pulsing in time to the pace set by Martin’s lapping tongue.

One thumb continued to massage his rim, sinking in just a touch, stretching him out wider, and then Martin’s tongue slipped fully side him, the twitching ring of muscle offering no resistance. Jon buried his moan into the pillow, Martin’s tongue steadily flicking in and out of him, his body loose and pliant. He shifted his knees further apart, trying to get more comfortable, and unintentionally dragged his cock against the fabric of the pillow. The friction shocked him, and he frantically tugged at his jumper to free himself entirely. Something deep in his lower belly started to coil, his hips pulled in two different directions– down into the searing pleasure in his cock, or arching towards Martin’s mouth. 

Martin, bless him, made it easy for him– hands on his hips, he guided him through a steady, rocking rhythm, mouth following him down and up. Jon pressed his face into his pillow, tears pricking his eyes. It was delicious. It was electrifying. It was burning deeper and hotter and it boiled his blood near the point of pain.

It was easy to ignore at first, awash in all the other sensations, but a pressure was starting to burn deep in his lower belly, white-hot. By the time he realised, his stomach was already tensing, his cock leaking.

“M-Muh …”

Martin hummed, low, and the sound vibrated against Jon’s rim and straight through to his cock, and Jon’s muscles locked up. He tried to hold it at bay, to draw it out for a little bit longer, but his body betrayed him, hips digging deeper into the pillow. His thighs clenched. His breath caught. He’d reached the breaking point.

“Jon?”

Martin pulled away and Jon could have _sobbed_ , but the tremors washed over him in low, undulating waves as he ground his hips into the bed, chasing his orgasm until he was little more than a twitching, delirious mess. When the last of it was wrung out, he collapsed into a pile of jellied limbs, chest stuttering with haggard breath. Martin was there, combing a hand through his damp, sweaty hair.

When he managed to collect himself, he whipped his head up. "Why did you _stop?”_

“I didn’t know!” Martin said, eyes wide. His lips were shiny and wet with saliva, and Jon shivered with latent arousal. “I didn’t think you’d come that soon!”

“Yes, well …” Goddammit. Perhaps it was for the best. If Martin had kept tonguing Jon through his orgasm … God, Jon may have self–immolated on the spot. Rolling onto his side, he chuckled breathlessly. “I thought you said you’d never done this before.”

“I haven’t,” Martin said, trying to hide a pleased grin. “Just looked up some stuff online. Surprisingly intuitive, really. And you, uh, really made it clear when you liked something.”

Did he? Jon’s face warmed. He didn’t remember being particularly loud, but, to be fair, he was hardly in a state to be paying attention to that sort of thing.

Giving Jon's bum a good pat, Martin grabbed the soiled pillow and made his way out of the bedroom. Jon treated himself to a long, indulgent stretch as the sound of running water and gargling noises drifted from the hallway until Martin returned with a damp towel. He'd washed his face clean, and with his free hand, he reached for Jon's stomach.

“Martin, please, I can do that–”

“Come on, let me. Please?”

With a huff, Jon lay back on the bed and Martin washed his stomach. The water was cool on Jon’s overheated skin, and he let out a small sigh of satisfaction.

When Martin was happy, he pulled away. “Okay, roll over.”

Jon squirmed. This man was going to be the death of him. “You don’t have to do that.”

"Jon, I have to be honest, I feel like we've passed the point of modesty once I stuck my tongue in your arse."

“Would you say your poetry is how you’ve developed such an eloquent grasp on the English language?”

Martin grinned. Despite his teasing tone, though, his eyes sobered. “Do you want me to stop?”

Jon paused. He never wanted Martin to _stop_ , per se, but he just didn't understand what drove him to care for Jon so tenderly. Sighing, he rolled over onto his belly. "Proceed."

"Why thank you, your majesty," said Martin, but his tone was still dripping with affection. One hand on Jon's hip, Martin used the other to clean him thoroughly. The cool water was a bit more shocking in such a sensitive area, but a warmth still shivered through Jon’s body. Not in the white-hot way it had earlier. A more comfortable heat. Softer.

When Martin finished, he took away the towel, and then lay next to Jon in bed, dragging the duvet over them both.

“Soo,” he started, sing-song. “How’re we feeling?”

“Good,” Jon said, and it was honest. He laughed. “That was … really something.”

“Well, if that's all,” said Martin, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"It was amazing." A grin crept its way onto Jon’s mouth. "I'm going to make the most delicious raspberry jam you've ever had."

"Good. I was thinking about it the whole time."

Jon nuzzled his way into Martin's chest, breathing in his calming scent. Sweat cooled on his skin, his eyelids threatening to slip shut. He couldn't go to sleep, though. Not yet.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I know this all, uh, might have been confusing? Considering …"

“It’s okay, Jon.” Martin pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

A worm of emotion wriggled deep in Jon’s chest, growing bigger and bigger until he thought he might choke on it. _I love him. I love him so much._

With a long stretch and a yawn, Martin settled deeper into bed, throwing an arm across Jon’s shoulders. “Come on, then, nap time. I wanna be up in time for a trip to the café.”

Pliant, Jon nodded, and allowed his eyes to close.

Together, they both slipped away.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr [@athina-blaine](https://athina-blaine.tumblr.com/).


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